An Unsullied Man.

A man will stand on a balcony in an apartment he has recently moved into. In a pair of khaki shorts, rocking the best sandals Maasai guys - we all know they are kuyus from Karatina just doing business in disguise - ever put together and a particularly flashy phone – not Infinix of course – in his grip he will reminisce old memories as a soft wind blows against his freshly shaved signature beard almost reminding him of the tranquil that can become of life. The tranquil that was life in days of innocence when he knew less and did less. He will want to go back to that. Really bad.

Leaning on the well curved metallic balcony grills he will make sense of the recent past and its darkness and his heart will skip a couple of beats when he remembers the pains - including the time he staggered into his house that he’s strangely unaccustomed to and hit his toe against the edge of the table and it hurt so bad. He felt it even in the daze of drunkardness. And he cursed in the darkness as he caressed the cold wall trying to reach out for the switch and cursed a little more in the light when he found it. Now it’s alilo funny when he thinks of it. He will rest his entire weight on those grills because he will be tired of his now unfamiliar and heavy soul.

He’ll understand why it feels that way. He’ll know he changed.

And he will be hopeful of better days. He will hope to get a better car – that doesn’t sound like a dying walrus when pulling into the basement parking - , marry her because she doesn’t text xaxa and can live a day without her makeup, knows names of economists and mathematicians besides knowing akina wizkid and that famous guy who sings trap music and she cooks round chapos – not like those who at their best produce maps of Kiribati – and also hope to go on holiday with her to the Seychelles because he will be the guy that can confidently say ‘bank otuch’. He hopes to have lots of money.

Perhaps he will resort to stop smoking soon even though he has been stopping for the last year and the year before that and probably knows it’s going to take more than written words in a resolution book to get that done. He will pray that the odds be in his favour. Although I would think that he is not the sort of person that believes in odds. He’s not the sort of guy that says he did not choose the thug life and that the thug life chose him. To him choice is inescapable.

You’d understand this choice thing better if, like him, you hail from an African home somewhere in Rarieda where nothing is left to chance. Not even your career. Typical African parents will for example pray and cane you into whatever profession they think is apt for you. Your old man will watch you as a youngling and think ‘He counts like a banker’ or ‘He has the hand of a shara person’ and in a jiffy’s abracadabra, just like that, your fate is sealed. You will have to become a banker or a businessman.

If say your name is Shirievi and now as a ‘man’ having done you KCPE exam proudly proclaim that you want to be a DJ – DJ Shiri for Shizzle. Your father will wait until both of you have eaten supper – for the strength; much so that they don’t cane you into fainting and then have to pay that guy who owns a moti in the village 1500 bob to rush you all the way to Russia hospital in Kisumu thinking you’re in a comma. Then he will cunningly slide in provocative statements that will make you repeat that you want to be DJ Shiri for Shizzle. He will then suddenly get angry, click loudly – create a mood for war - , summon strength from the ancestors and then come down on you with the vigour like Safaricom does on our data bundles. 

He will whip you using the QnA approach (only that you don’t really get to answer);

*Whip

Q: Ati unataka kua nini? Eeh? Shizzle ni nini?

*Whip *Whip *Whip 

Q: Unajua shule nimelipa pesa ngapi? Ama unadhani ni bure?

*Whip *Whip

Q: Si nilikuambia hii maneno ya facebook inakuharibu akili? Eeh?

*Whip *Whip *Whip

Q: Unadhani utalipwa na nani kuchezea watu nyimbo na wako nazo kwa simu zao?

*Whiiiiiip (that long one where the lash is raised up at least 180 degrees ready for impact)

Q: Unalia nini?

*Endless whips into the night.

Ps: The whips correlate to the question. The more a question agitates him the harder he will hit you.

You will then have to become a banker and give you folks the satisfaction of telling other villagers that their Shirievi is a bank employee before you can quit and become DJ Shiri when you already have kedo forty years and your signature beard isn’t even that cool anymore.

Remember the guy at the balcony?

You also know it’s a habit for him because every Saturday morning finds him on that balcony. Smoking. On those mornings, he will be smelling more like a KBL tanker and his mouth will have the taste of some turquoish waters of Dunga beach. It’ll taste like he ate the forbidden fruit. He did. And this will make him cringe when he remembers the night before. When he remembers the other sins of the night that he has to own up to in the light of day he will quiver. Sipping on lemon juice (they say it raises alkaline levels and lowers hangie levels), he will swallow hard and feel nausea and lethargy inevitably take over his whole being and while battling against swooning he will find his way back to the couch. He will lie there feeling poisoned and dead and almost rigour mortised as the hangover eats him up and he will wait till his boys pass by and drag him out of his misery with some light hearted talk and bits of brotherly abuse. 

But they won’t show up.    

It will be hours before he reverts to his rather ‘puritanical’ life. He will get up and garner his exuberance while rounding up empty liquor cans and pressing them together in the trash bag. He will want them out of his life – and out of his door. Then under the streams of water in his shower, he will swear that last night was the last time. He will think of his life and quietly swear, 

“Sitawai kunywa tena”. 

A lifelong decision made in a flash. He will mean it.

He will call her and let her know too. 

He will earnestly want to be a better man. A man not driven by booze. A man whose lungs don’t suck at being lungs. He will crave tranquillity. And stability.

She will probably get the call while on a book thing with her girlfriends. They will be reading things Sophia Nelson has written in The Woman Code and drawing deep life skills because modern ladies like her take book clubs seriously. They read, do yoga and drink sophisticated things like green tea and talk about weight and healthy living. Being the progressive woman she thinks of herself, she won’t answer a call in the middle of a damn meeting. Instead, she’ll courteously excuse herself and trot away to pick the call. The door will seem an eternity away as she squeezes herself between seats and dodges the manicured toes of her counterparts and the scattered pillows on the floor. Finally she will swing open the door and mumble a ‘hello’ as she moves further from the door on the outside.

“Uko sure umeacha?” She’ll ask him distinctively. “Kabisa?”

He will explain how he came to the resolution as she listens and tears quietly. It will make her happy. She will nod even though he can’t see her over the phone and promise to support him. He will then hang up and she will take time to let it all sink in. Finally he has become the man she always wanted him to be. Her man. Her perfect man. She will wipe her tears, clear her throat and then go back in but she will not hear anything else they say because he will have stolen her heart. And we know the heart is what really listens. 

However, the thing with women is that they glow in some glory when they are happy. And she will glow. They will look at her, at their books, at her again and definitely see the glow and they’ll exchange quick glances with each other and you’ll be sure the glances carry coded messages more secretively than Nasa’s emails. They will pretend to go on with the book club but on their way out one of them will ask her about it. 

“So what was that all about?” 

“Huh?” She will feign surprise. 

“Ni yeye alicall ama? Anataka nini?” 

She will tell her what happened. That he changed. And the story will be passed on to the rest over WhatsApp in like 10 milliseconds and the rest will pretend to not know until she tells them personally and then they will say ‘awww’ to her face to make her feel appreciated. And they will be a little jealous that she got that man.

In the end, she will see him as the perfect man. He will be the perfect man. But we know that the man is a consequence of conscious choice. He is not the unsullied man. No. He is the man with imperfections made perfect.

A Bachelor and His Warus.

Courtesy of myhealth.co.ke

On your way to Eldoret is an old centre called Timboroa. You’ll find it just past Eldama Ravine but before Burnt Forest. The place does not brag. It does nothing to catch your eye. At its heart lies the aura and picturesque of typical upcountry towns. Like others, Timboroa is quiet and secluded. Just enough life to appease its inhabitants and those accustomed to tranquil and occasional boredom. When cruising by in your Bima via the main highway you’ll see the usual; men in Kiosks sipping hot tea out of metallic cups – cupping them dearly as they stare indistinctively at passer’s by. Some look beat and disinterested. 

Over sunset, these men will be seated on wooden benches outside shops in groups getting consumed by political chit-chat. Or playing poker. By the roadside you’ll find elderly women selling potatoes and carrots in buckets. They will gladly let you know this is their ‘wofishi’ should you try look at them despairingly. And sun-kissed children with bare bottoms will be playing beside them. They look happy. At the last road bump leaving the centre are a couple of young lads selling roasted maize. They perch on the bump and wave the maize as cars slow down. They alternate irregularly to take smoke breaks. 

Yet, beneath this common demeanour, as you interact with the centre, the true person of Timboroa happens, slowly, like a migraine. There’s the cold. Its solid cold over there. Freaking biting cold. The kind that foully shawls itself on exposed cheeks and bites harder than ghetto mosquitos. Only fellas born there know how to brave such kind of vicious weather. Then there’s the forest. A blanket of shrubbery and heavy coppice surrounds the hilly terrain of Timboroa. It’s healthy and scary at the same time. There is the edge of the forest that rubs its shoulder against the highway. It’s christened by the locals as ‘Danger’. This is mostly because of its appetite for delinquency and supernatural interference. Story goes that men and women have walked into that forest and vanished without a trace. A Bermuda of sorts. It is a very unlikely place. Actually, it is the only place in Timboroa where fear runs deeper than the summed courage of Kalenjin warriors on the hillside of Seguton.

I spent most years of my childhood in this place. All my childhood memories were made here. Memories that I now wish I could blow up into a big bubble and live inside and not listen to endless yapping of politicians saying ‘tumetenga pesa’ and ‘kuna mikakati kabambe’ year in year out. Nostalgia wriggles into my whole being every time I visualise the levelled playing field where I made little friends like me. Where we would play football like Ronaldo – or so we thought and drink free milk every second Friday of the month courtesy of the gentility of Mzee Moi and his Nyayo philosophy. We had no care in the world. That is before adult life happened and they took away the milk. Our milk.

Occasionally, my old man would light a fire in the kiln and we would roast fresh warus right from the shamba. It was our equivalent of barbecuing. A sacred family bonding ritual. And this, my friends, is why I am writing this piece. It is all about my waru escapades. My dad would carefully turn the warus on the rutara – no idea what we call this in English – until they were all black and crispy. Hot, black and crispy. We would then sit by a jiko and peel the outer layers off and chew on the inside parts ravenously with infrequent smacking of the lips. Talk of great meals!

Somehow the warus got engraved into my DNA. They shaped my life. My belief. It’s true that you cannot live an honest life without eating warus. They do bring the best in everybody. Like they did in me. And you have to agree with me here. After a sumptuous encounter with warus, for example, you will even forgive your vilest enemies. A guy will splash water on you with his Vitz (those Vitz guys!) but when they open the door and step out with a stretched Kasuku of warus you will be all good - even wave them off with a smile like the ones we see on the rather deceptive Coke adverts. Warus are the unseen force of friendships. They soften hardened hearts. You even win over the ladies with warus.

Her: Sasa Wesh?

Me: Poa. Mambo?

Her: I’m good. Bado tunameet leo?? Umechelewa!

Me: Yeah nakuja. Relax. Nimepitia Githurai kukuchukulia waru babe.

Her: Omg! Warus! You’re such a romantic guy aki. Napenda waru yani. Nakupenda kama waru Wesh!

Now, am I exaggerating? Maybe a little bit. Did I fake a chat just to root for warus? Hell yeah! Anything for warus. Do I make waru sound better than Pizza? Definitely! And do I bit on warus with some pathetic level of delight? You betcha! And I am proud of all this. I am unafraid of publicly declaring that I love warus. Fighting for equal opportunity to warus for every other child out there is part of me. Azin we all need a fair chance to chomp on warus in pricey restaurant without fear if discrimination. Don’t we? And without waiters asking if you’re from Kiambu or where your parents hailed from. Nobody should look at you with a side eye just because your cologne’s scent is inspired by the smell of fresh warus. Nobody! And neither should you be ashamed of displaying artistic sculpture of a wild waru beside that elephant carving you bought at Maasai Market. And should you hold back that proposal you have for Sasini Tea Company on a waru flavoured teabags? I don’t think so! We need those too!

You want to succeed in life? Eat what you like. Eat what everyone likes. Eat warus.

How about that for my upcoming campaign on warus? Genius right?

Okay, enough of that.

Here is the thing though; I am tired of eating warus. And I am trapped on a loop that has me doing waru embellished meals all through the week. How, you ask? Well, mostly because my culinary expertise is finessed around the damn warus! These I alternate with Ugali but then who will scrub that Sufuria? Not me. I might end up buying a new Sufuria half the time I eat Ugali.

I know what you’re thinking. Why can’t you learn to cook other things Wesh? I have an answer; I once googled a recipe and I kinda had nothing on the list except water and salt. They said pinches of salt. I had many pinches. You should have bought those ingredients then Wesh! I know! But then I had a thing with my boys the day I hoped to buy them – we played monopoly the whole afternoon. Then the whole idea of cooking new stuff somehow slid away. The moment passed. 

But I will learn how to cook other things. Eventually. But as of now it’s a game of warus over here.